Yonder Comes a Courteous Knight
by ACleverName
Summary: One-shots and drabbles, some cross-overs, definitely tending toward the Guy/Marian spectrum but a mixed bag with mixed ships. Travel to Tyre, in the TARDIS, and into realms tender and terrifying.
1. How Sir Guy Got His Coat

**A/N: **_Yonder Comes a Courteous Knight_ is a collection of one-shots and drabbles based on the BBC _Robin Hood. _Some will be very silly, like the first one, others will be more serious (most of them Guy/Marian, but not all). I write them as they come to me, and bear in mind I just started watching the second series for the first time. I haven't taken a survey of the field, so to speak, so if themes have been done before, I apologize. This is my first time writing for this fandom, which frankly I didn't think I'd ever write for, but here I am . . . hope it amuses you . . .

"Yonder Comes a Courteous Knight" is also a folk song in the Child Ballad collection (112A, with many variants). I like the song (as performed by the Baltimore Consort) and think it makes a good overarching title for the series. Sources for the entire series will be published under the most recent chapter.

This first one is a cross over with _Doctor Who, _season 3 (Ten/Martha). Enjoy.

**i. How Sir Guy Got His Coat**

SHERWOOD FOREST

_Winter, 1192_

Sir Guy of Gisborne found the forest midwinter to be peaceful. Some of the Sheriff's men were unnerved by the comparative silence, the lack of bird song connoting a sense of unease or mischief. He had said it before that criminals were a cowardly and superstitious lot, so the foot soldiers' lack of shrewdness in this matter did not surprise him. Taking the horse at a brisk walk offset the cold as a light snow began to fall, leaving drifts of white glitter in his hair and eyelashes. He pulled his thin cloak closer as he tugged at the reins; for obvious reasons he couldn't be seen in his crusader's cloak so a measly replacement had to serve.

But the forest hadn't stayed silent for long. A sound, unlike any Guy had ever heard, split the dull grey sky, startling the winter ravens into frenetic flight out of the snow-laden trees. It was loud enough to be thunder, yet not at all like thunder. A scraping of something metal against—Guy gave up trying to process the strange sound, which was just as well considering his horse had already decided to throw him.

Guy was a good horseman, but he could tell the horse was so terrified, it was best to roll out from under it rather than risk being smashed by its hooves. Which is what he did, albeit with a muttered curse. As the strange sound began to fade away, Guy noticed for the first time that a blue shack was standing in the snow where none had been before. He rubbed his eyes on his black gloves, wondering if the fall from the horse had knocked him senseless. He was about to rush forward and knock on the blue shack to determine whether it was corporeal, when a door opened and a man in brown stepped out.

He didn't step out as much as leap out with a cry. It wasn't a battle cry as such, thought Guy, hiding behind the thicket of oak trees as he watched in bafflement. It wasn't a cry of distress either. The man in brown removed the long coat he'd been wearing and shouted into the blue shack, "Martha!"

A moment later, a girl in strange clothes came hurtling out of the shack, too, carrying a large black coat. "Doctor!" she snapped, as something small and quick jumped out of the coat and ran across the snow-covered ground. Guy squinted; was it a chicken? It was the size of a chicken, but with brightly-colored plumage—or scales like a snake—a shade of vibrant rose. Guy gawked. The doctor followed the chicken across the snow and leapt on it, wildly scooping it up in the brown coat. "Got 'er!" he said.

Guy knew chickens were stupid and docile, so the fact he could clearly see the bird-thing wriggling in the coat convinced him it was not a chicken after all. "Where did you get that coat, then?" the doctor asked the girl.

"TARDIS wardrobe," she replied, though what a TARDIS was, Guy wasn't sure. It was some foreign language, no doubt, and since the girl looked like a Moor, he felt that was reason enough to bring them in for questioning. He unsheathed his sword and stalked out into the clearing.

"You're under arrest," he said. Normally people were intimidated when he said they were under arrest. The doctor and the girl—Martha—looked vaguely surprised. The doctor stared at him as the bundle in the brown coat continued to wriggle. "You're trespassing in the King's forest," said Guy, a little uncertainly.

"Oh, we're not trespassing!" effused the doctor.

"We have a gift," said Martha.

"A gift? For the Sheriff?"

Martha and the doctor looked at each other. They seemed to communicate something only they could decipher. Then Martha took several large steps toward Guy, her boots crunching the snow. "No, this is for you." She held the black coat she'd been carrying at arm's length.

Guy moved cautiously toward her, still holding out the sword. She was smiling at him. He grabbed the coat away from her and inspected it.

"Oh, that's brilliant," said the doctor, grinning. "Try it on!"

Not entirely sure why he did so, Guy sheathed his sword and put on the coat. It was warm.

"It fits like a glove! That's got to mean something," said Martha, still grinning. "Although it's pleather, is that going to—?"

"I doubt Sir Guy is too worried about the material, are you?" asked the doctor loudly.

"Pleather?" repeated Sir Guy. He'd never heard the word. Then he looked suspiciously at the doctor and Martha as they edged back toward their blue shack. "How did you know me?"

"Oh, well," the doctor demurred. "Good guess?"

"He means, your reputation precedes you," said Martha, backed up against the wood of the shack.

Guy smiled wryly. He had tribute from the peasants of Locksley Manor, and usually he just took what he wanted. But it had been a very long time since anyone had given him a gift.

But they weren't going to get away that easy. "Stop! You're not poachers, I can see that. What are you doing in the forest?"

Martha and the doctor looked at each other. They both rushed for the door of the shack. "Must dash!" the doctor shouted. He pulled shut the blue shack's door and disappeared inside. Curiosity piqued, Guy banged on the door with a fist. "It's no use hiding," he bellowed. "Come out now, and the Sheriff may be lenient."

His only answer was that strange noise that ripped through the slowly darkening night, and he watched in amazement as the blue shack disappeared. He walked around and around the perimeter, noting with confusion the impression the object had made in the snow—so he couldn't have just imagined it. He shook himself and found he drew the "pleather" coat closer, almost automatically. Was it a vision? What other explanation could there possibly be? But the coat remained, entirely corporeal.

Eventually he found his horse and rode back to Nottingham, not a little dazed.

* * *

At the Sheriff's table he said little. "Gisborne," said the Sheriff, picking at his teeth, "is that new coat?"

"Yes."

"Hmm. Wherever did you get it?"

Guy cleared his throat and looked down. "I found it, my lord."

"Speaking of finding, what happened to _find_ing the Night Watchman, or whatever he calls himself?"

"I followed him as far as the forest."

"And then?"

"And then my horse threw me. That is all." Guy knew the Sheriff was not really listening, so he probably could have mentioned the blue shack, the chicken-thing, the doctor and the Moor Martha without a word of wonder. Then again, he thought, standing next to the fire, the Sheriff would probably think him insane if he actually told the truth about what happened. Better to keep the coat and stay silent. Besides, it was a nice coat—pleather or not.


	2. Wounded

**ii. Wounded**

_(set between "Tattoo? What Tattoo?" and "A Thing Or Two About Loyalty")_

**A/N: **Guy/Marian alert! Once upon a time there was a fabulous writer of _Phantom of the Opera _fan fiction (phan phiction?) named Nicola who wrote some beautiful stories she called Leroux Fill-Ins, which basically filled in scenes between Erik and Christine that Leroux did not include in the book. Consider this is a fill-in

It was moments like these in which Marian could lose herself. She could forget for a brief time her position, the complicated games she was playing, whose forfeiture, should she lose, was her life. Did her horse know of any of the complexities of life? No, common wisdom would tell her it was just a dumb beast. But she did derive such pleasure from using the brush to comb the long strands of mane and tail, letting her mind trail away into a realm where thought was easy and leisurely, not fraught with confusion and worry.

As usual, reality intruded. She heard her father's step coming toward her from the house long before he cleared his throat. "Yes, Father?"

"Marian, you do know about Gisborne?"

Marian turned and set down the brush. It was going to be one of _those _conversations. "What about him?"

Her father would often alter his looks depending on the gravity of the situation, usually in inverse proportions. Were it a grave matter he would be listless, fidgety; were it something small, he would stare at her fiercely. Arguments were often won on her recognizing this pattern. She was concerned that he did not meet her gaze. "You know that when he was taken into the forest by Robin, he was beaten."

Marian shrugged and turned back to the horse, pressing a cheek against its velvety neck. It nickered; she felt the smooth coursing of the veins just underneath its pelt and skin. "I did not know you took such an interest in . . ."

"Your betrothed's well-being?" There was the sarcasm in his voice that she recognized too often in her own. She looked at him fully. The lines of worry on his face were growing ever deeper. "You agreed to the marriage, it is merely in keeping up appearances that I draw your attention—"

"I should be expected to worry, is that what you mean?" she sighed. She knew full well what kind of a state Robin had left Gisborne in. She'd been there, seen him tied up and gagged against a tree. Ignominious, and something warned here it had been wrong, however much he might have deserved the beating. As she understood it from Much, of course, they'd both been equally bloodied in the attempt—that was men for you. But she did have to pretend that she had no idea.

"You might offer to help clean him up."

Marian snorted, about to say something cutting, but she could tell from the tone of her father's voice that he was finding this as difficult to say as she found it irksome to hear. "Surely there are others to . . ."

"It would look well, that's all," he said at last, with effort. He had folded his arms across his chest. As they both knew, the only reason she'd agreed to marriage was to preserve the life and liberty of herself and her father—so that she could continue to do what she could for the poor. Clearly in this case her father better understood the nuances of courtly behavior.

She bowed her head and removed her leather gloves. "Fine. I understand what you mean to say, and I will go to Nottingham." She hazarded a look, seeing distress and relief mingled in her father's features, and she half-smiled. "Don't—I know you're only thinking of me." She moved past him into the house; now she had to decide what was appropriate to wear.

* * *

"Marian." She was always surprised at how pleased he seemed to see her. She couldn't understand it, and it always ended up galling her. "What are you--?"

"My father," she said dryly, "said you'd been injured, and now I see for myself that's true."

His brows drew together. "Just a few scratches." Unconsciously, she imagined, he licked where his lip had been split. She couldn't help the sardonic raising of one of her brows. His face was bruised and cut, and she'd caught him walking with a limp and favoring his left arm. His gaze was piercing, though, and confused, so she quickly looked down into the basket she'd been carrying on one arm.

"Oh. I see. I brought some medicines, but if a physician has already—"

"No, wait," he said, and the urgency in his voice made her want to laugh—and yet she felt a stab of pity. He moved quickly to bridge the gap of a few paces that separated them. "If you've gone to the trouble of bringing your medicines—"

"It is nothing," she said, irritated at his bald enthusiasm. "Common rue, ointments mixed with almond milk, ground ivy in a salve . . . nothing you would not find in the castle leech's book." But looking up, she saw it was useless arguing with him. She'd made him think that she cared, and now . . .

"Come here," he said softly. "Sit with me a moment—I'd be very glad of your time." She nodded curtly and followed him to a small passage and an even smaller staircase and balustrade. There was a stool in it, and he moved quickly to indicate it to her. He leaned on the balustrade and looked at her expectantly. She muttered under her breath and took out her salves and bandages. Taking care not to touch him any more than was necessary, she leaned over and began to rub the rue ointment onto the gash on his forehead.

"How did you come by these injuries?" she asked coldly.

"Fighting with outlaws," he said. His observation of her was total; he made every effort to stare into her face and not wince at the potential pain. With Robin, she could get away with wounding as part and parcel of healing. She didn't dare try it with Guy.

"They got the upper hand."

"I wouldn't call it a fair fight," he said sourly, rubbing his tongue along his split lip again. She waited for him to elaborate, to say something on the nature of being tied up. She wondered if there was any truth, after all, to Robin's allegations on Guy's treachery. "But I got your ring back."

She sighed. "Yes." She'd finished with his face and was looking at him anxiously. He used his teeth to pull off his gloves and presented his hands to her, flexing them with a grunt of pain. He held them out to her, slightly sheepish. His knuckles were bruised and scabbed over, no doubt from punching, Marian thought furiously. She took one fist and rubbed in the ointment as savagely as she could.

"You are a woman of many talents," he said, squeezing her hand slightly.

She rolled her eyes. "Growing a few herbs, mixing a few potions?" She tsked, inspecting his fingernails, all bitten to the quick.

"That, and many other things besides."

She frowned over his hand. "Your hands are rough."

He smiled, looking down. "As rough as yours are soft . . . Marian." He pulled her closer, turning over her right hand in his, caressing along the lines of her palm. Despite herself, she flushed and tried to pull away.

"Guy, I'm trying to—"

"But all these cuts." He flipped her hand over, gazing in mock disapproval at the many half-healed scars on the back of her hand—results of being none-too-careful in her night rides. "You should be more cautious."

"_You," _she said furiously, "are one to talk!" She reached over and yanked at his right sleeve, revealing a sodden bandage wrapped around his wrist. He pulled back, unable to suppress a hiss of pain. "What is that?" she snapped.

"Nothing," he said, pulling his sleeve back over it.

"Let me see," she insisted, pulling back the bandage. She knew exactly what it was. Robin had told her about the tattoo and how the Sheriff had cleverly gotten rid of all evidence. In removing the bandage she could see no indication that a tattoo had ever existed; she saw only a mass of inflamed skin. "Did the physician see to this?" she asked pointedly.

"Marian, don't."

"It's healing badly," she said, without a shred of dissimulation. She whipped off the bandage as he looked at her, annoyed at her discovery but unwilling to prevent her from tending to it. She glared at him, wrapping clean cloth and vinegar-treated alder bark mixture from the depths of her basket around it. _Why, why, why, _she thought. _Why am I doing this? If it suppurated and killed him, I wouldn't have to marry him, would I? _"Did you get that fighting outlaws, too?"

"No," he said icily, blue-grey gaze fixed on her. "The Sheriff gave me that." Her own eyes flicked over his briefly; he'd told the truth. She tied the knot off securely, dropping his hand. But he seized both of hers. "Thank you . . . for this," he said, awkwardly holding her hands in his. She was sure he wanted to bring them to his lips. His lower lip was still bloodied, and she'd studiously avoided it, as if it wasn't there. She wasn't going to give him an excuse to . . .

"Might I hope that this interest betrays some affection for me?"

"Take from it what you will," she said briskly, but she hadn't yet managed to dislodge her hands from his. His palms were rough as she'd said, but warm. He did certainly manage to hold the reins with a great deal of dexterity and to handle a sword— She shook her head, remembering he'd used those hands to kill. She let her wrists go limp in his grasp.

"They are so soft," he murmured again, taking one and brushing the back of it against his cheek, almost unconsciously. She tried to react with the shock she felt. Yet some rebellious part of her had to wait, to see how far he would take this liberty. There was such pleasure he was deriving just out of touching her hands. Her skin prickled with the feel of his stubble; she tensed.

"Gisborne," snapped the Sheriff from somewhere behind them. "If you're finished holding hands with Lady Marian I have something that might be of interest to you." Marian dropped her hands at the same moment Guy pulled back from her, both of them looking down guiltily. Marian didn't stay to see the look of annoyance and frustration that crossed her fiancé's face; she picked up her basket and fled with a curt nod in his direction.


	3. Lupus Est Fabula

**iii. Lupus Est Fabula**

_(set directly after "Tattoo? What Tattoo?")_

**A/N: **_Robin Hood _by the BBC seems utterly obsessed with tattoos, despite (or perhaps because of) the fact they weren't really the thing in England, 1192. After finding out that the PacMan blob on Guy's arm was actually supposed to be a wolf, I really began to wonder how and why he got it. I was convinced it must have been acquried in the Holy Land. And because my brain would not let me do things without at least a grain of historical truth, I wrote this, desperately attempting to merge the historical timeline with the one presented in the TV show. Fat chance. I decided to challenge myself and try to write it from his point of view . . .

* * *

_If a wolf sees a man before the man sees the wolf, the man will lose his voice._

The last king of the people of this place, Harold Godwinson of Wessex, was brought down by a sword. When his body was laid out, they say, he was stripped of all raiment and had to be identified by his tattoos. Herod of Antioch, too, they say was amazed to hear that the ancient Britons were tattooed with the figures of animals. These are markings when the wearer of the image calls the spirit of the image to act. These are the ancient stories. But the Romans, too, marked criminals and slaves.

I reached the Outremer in autumn. The voyage was made with haste, with stealth; there was no leisurely departure from London and overland through Genoa and Sicily and through Cyprus—it was as direct a route to Tyre as could be taken by boat, and then to somewhere in the desert between Acre and Jaffa, where Richard and his men were advancing and constantly being beaten back by the specter of Saladin.

In this, Robin of Locksley was right. I was not a crusader, _peregrinatio, _I took no vows for armed pilgrimage and expected no reward of indulgences upon my return. He was a fool to bring back a Saracen bow—in the Holy Land, the crossbow outranged the Turk bow time and time again. But perhaps all that time in Palestine has made this man think like a Turk—they could not withstand heavy cavalry charges and manuevered, . Guerrilla warfare. Cowardice. Exactly what outlaws do. Just as the so-called army of Jerusalem—they were as full of vice as any breed of men. In Acre there was jealousy, bickering, penury, and starvation. What man would choose to be there? And yet precious King Richard, Coeur de Lion, would rather have that land of desert and fleas than his own kingdom. His own country.

Arriving safely in the harbour of Tyre with a few trusted men, there was little time to acclimatize to the fabulous silhouette of the ancient city. The mission had to be carried out with speed; the Sheriff, for all his roundabout sarcasm, made this quite clear. Inescapably clear. And for my part, I was eager to finish the job as quickly as possible. The other men might be seduced by the wealth and finery, even the women—godless harlots—that the land might supply. We stayed at an inn, far away from the crusaders' camps but still in the Christian quarter of the city. Late into the night I sat, attempting to melt off the ungodly heat with wine. The task—to find a guide to take us to Richard's camp—was proving more trying than I had expected.

In the inn, I met an old crusader. He told me a tale of how he had first reached the Holy Land in the army of Frederick Barbarossa more than a year before. His name was Otto. "Guy of Gisborne," he said—for he spoke Latin, French, German, and Arabic—"you come with a mind for business. My lord was the Duke of Swabia and his father before him was Barbarossa, Holy Roman Emperor. We should be enemies."

He must have been old enough when he set out on his crusade. Now he was grey, bearing evidence of many battles and many wounds. His clothing was a curious mixture of the rough leather jerkin he must have worn under his mail into dozens of skirmishes, but his tanned skull was hidden by a drapery of bright cloth, such as a Saracen would wear.

"Normally, any man not an Englishman would be my enemy. But we are bound together by a holy war, are we not?"

He gave a grim smile that altogether reminded me of my own. "I was once. But you are not here as a crusader, else you would be wearing a Templar shield." I stayed silent at this, for though I liked the man, he was still a German and I was not certain I could trust him. He fingered the broadsword at his belt as I kept mine within close reach.

He sat beside me. I grudgingly offered him a cup, and he poured himself an overflowing cup of wine. "There was another man named Guy here. Perhaps you have heard of him."

I gritted my teeth. This was a stain upon my honor, for Guy de Lusignan had lost Acre four years before to the Turk, because of quarrelling for the crown of Jerusalem.

Otto of Swabia was not offended, or at least he buried his affront in wine. In the heat I had no stomach for it. "The Saracens say that Barbarossa's death was the will of God."

"Heathen superstition!"

He held up his sword hand, gnarled and missing a finger. "I was there. Do you know Anatolia—but you have not been there? We were crossing the Saleph River. It is hip-deep at its highest point. Hip-deep. The current is not strong. Barbarossa was old. I think it was his heart failed him."

"And he drowned?"

"Weighed down by his armor, Sir Guy. Pray you never meet such a fate."

"My armor is not that heavy, Otto of Swabia." I nodded to the light mail I wore, not mentioning that I was aching to abandon it for a few moments' freedom—a bath, perhaps.

He gazed into his cup as if he would divine the future. "Most of the army fled. Or committed suicide."

"Is that the usual extent of German courage?" His eyes changed. I watched him flexing the crooked remains of his hand. He was not a fool—and yet . . . "But you stayed. Why?"

The crusader shrugged. "There were five thousand of us left. Five thousand to make it alive to Acre." He drained his cup of wine. "We were meant to take Barbarossa's body to burial in Jerusalem."

I repressed a laugh spiked with scorn. "But you never reached it."

"No. You will find his bones in the cathedral there. Thousands of miles from home."

He stood up and gazed east, or what he supposed was east in the darkness, lit only by a few Moorish lamps and the stars through the open-air windows. "You will find Tyre full of fountains and Roman ruins. Alexander once set foot here, and Nebuchadnezzar conquered it, too, they say. Walk down those narrow streets, and you will meet all that the empire has to offer. The Bedouin, the Syrian, the Turk, Sudanese and Circassian and Byzantine . . . All to be had for a price, my friend. The bazaars are beautiful and dazzling. It is nothing to Saracen eyes, the wealth of the East, but to Christians of Germany and England . . ."

It was true. I had never believed the tales of the opulence, even with the spices, carpets, and fine things that sometimes made their way even to Nottingham from the Holy Land. Men are given to exaggeration. But if Tyre was representative of the East, its wealth had not been exaggerated. Perhaps that was why men like Otto the Swabian had stayed.

"But beware. A man grows languid in this climate, Gisborne. Here the serfs have freedom far beyond what we know in our own lands."

I frowned. "How can that be?"

"There are so few knights left," continued my informant. "And most of these people are natives. _Turcopoles, _some of them, but others Jews and . . . it's the way things work here. You'll soon grow used to it."

I got up from my seat. "I am not staying long."

"That's right, you have a mission," he mocked. "But few men to carry it out with you."

"I brought only men I could trust."

"You will need a guide to get you to the Coeur de Lion's camp."

I reacted too soon, I should have hid my true purpose from him. "How do you know it is Richard I seek?"

He again looked down to his wine cup. He stared at the flagon, now empty, and then to me. I reached into my purse and flung out a piece of silver. One of the inn's boys emerged from the shadows to replace the empty flagon and was gone again as quickly and stealthily. "The men who arrive now know nothing of the winter of 1190. We crusaders starved, for all our ideas of glory. I shall not starve again."

I nodded, but repeated my question, bringing with it the blade of my knife to his throat. "_How _did you know I seek Richard?"

He smiled a little drunkenly at the knife and patted it away with his wrecked hand. His French was becoming thicker now, and since he had no English, he switched to Latin. "That winter, Gisborne—you learn to know the look of someone hungry for something. Those who always desire blood."

I put away the knife, but cautioned him to lower his voice if we were to come to a mutual understanding. "What do you mean? Why would you help me? Were you still a knight of the Swabian army I might understand—"

"_Lukos, lupus,_" he muttered. "Their eyes shine in the dark like lamps!" At this point I feared I was entertaining the whim of a madman, a lost crusader with too much of the desert sand in his eyes. But his look grew lucid. "When you have done what you came here to do, take me back to England. Give me land and title. These things can be done."

"I do not know—"

"The risk is great, so the prize must be great. There is no other way to get into the desert. You would trust the people of Tyre, of Acre? Your king's spies must be everywhere. Robin of Locksley, I have heard he is in your king's personal guard—"

"Locksley?" I repeated, unable to curb my enthusiasm. Otto nodded, looking again at his sword hand. "With King John on the throne," I said softly, "my lord the Sheriff of Nottingham will be well-placed."

"Then you could grant me title?"

"Yes."

In the dim light, Otto of Swabia pulled back the sleeve from his raggedy garment to reveal the inside of his right wrist. Tattooed there was a bird. "A raven," he said. "When the ravens stop flying around Kyffhauser Mountain, Barbarossa will return." He said it with a smile so that I could not tell whether he was speaking in irony or not. "If we are to trust one another, you must be marked, too."

I pulled back in instant revulsion. "Normans do not wear tattoos," I said.

"Cowards like Turks, then," he muttered over his shoulder, turning disdainfully away. "Pah!" And he spat on the ground.

"Wait." I placed one hand on his shoulder, the other on the hilt of my sword in its scabbard. "If you can find me more men—we must be dressed as Saracens or the plan will never succeed."

Otto stroked the remnants of his beard, white, grey, and faded gold. "A wolf for you, Guy of Gisborne."

"A wolf? Why?"

"Ferocity, courage . . . it's the sign of young warriors."

I forced my face into a smile. "I am not young."

"You're young enough, my friend."

* * *

While the attack on Richard Coeur de Lion was a disaster, thanks to that fool Robin of Locksley, I could not remove the tattoo from my arm any more than I could forego my promise to Otto of Swabia. Though I knew exactly what the Sheriff would say if we both made the passage to England and then to Nottingham: he would want the German dead, no matter what services he had rendered, no matter what part he had played in the assassination attempt, that it was no fault of his that it had not succeeded.

The skin had still been inflamed from the needles and ink when Locksley slashed it, and it was slow to heal. The voyage back could not be delayed as any setback was a moment closer to the King's guards discovering the real perpetrators. It almost made me laugh to think myself ill with fever on the ship home when I was supposed to be in bed in Locksley Manor, rendered sluggish by a contagion. For this reason the trip was interminable, and my awareness of Otto's movements grew more and more hazy. In my distraction I began to wonder if I'd dreamed the German up, but the still-festering wound on my wrist made that impossible.

When I recovered, when we reached England, despite the mission's failure I felt pleasure. Few things gave me that sensation of pleasure unadulterated by bitterness or cynicism. With Otto of Swabia as an ally, we could plot again. We could get rid of Richard by some other means. I would persuade the Sheriff to see the old crusader's usefulness. That is when I discovered that he was already dead.

The body had been in the hold, for how long I could not tell. He'd been stabbed. Later, when my own men admitted to having taken his life, they could not deny he'd put up a considerable fight. His body gave witness to the ferocity of his spirit. I took pleasure, then, in slitting their throats, for daring to defy my orders. I came back from the Holy Land, then, utterly alone.

Otto had said nothing in the brief weeks I had known him about a woman. But in his purse, I found a miniature mosaic of exquisite workmanship—from Constantinople, no doubt—of a woman. Was she German? Was she Greek? Saracen? Jew? Wife or lover? Dead or alive? There was no clue, no name. _Vous et nul autre _was the only inscription. He had kept her close, like his loyalty to Barbarossa, which he had even tattooed into his flesh. What did my marking attest? The wolf that led the lambs astray? The wolf that stole a man's voice? Wolves sometimes seem solitary creatures, but they have packs, they have mates.

_Wolves mate for life. _


	4. Why Won't He Shave?

**iv. Why won't he shave?**

_(set between "A Thing Or Two About Loyalty" and "Peace? Off!")_

**A/N: **Guy/Marian alert! Very silly. I'm sorry.

* * *

Marian had her father cornered just outside her chamber door, which is exactly what she wanted. "Father," she began, as loudly as she could without actually shouting.

"Marian," Sir Edward hissed under his breath, trying to take her by the arm, "don't you understand that--?"

"I know, I know," she muttered back softly, her eyes darting from the window to her chamber back to her father's face, taut with anxiety. "Do you know what this is?" she resumed in her extra-loud voice.

Her father flailed at her arm, still trying to get a word in edgewise in a soft whisper. His eyes were full of warning and meaning, and he reacted badly to a creak in the house's wooden frame. This was what Marian had been waiting for, clear proof that Robin

had not left her window like he said he would and was prowling around, hoping to gain something—heaven knew what—by spying on her.

She repeated her question to her father loudly, presenting him with a long-handled blade. He looked at the blade and back at her with a quirk of his eyebrows suggesting he thought she'd gone insane. She mouthed at him, eager for the charade to appear as natural as possible. "Yes, of course I know what it is," he said, as loudly as she had asked the question. "It's a straight razor."

"And you know what it's for, don't you, Father?" Sir Edward rolled his eyes at her absurdity and again bent close, trying desperately to whisper something to Marian between the theatrical shouting. "I am told it is for shaving," Marian went recklessly on. "You know how to use it, but _some_ men of my acquaintance_ don't_." She meaningfully tossed her head in the direction of her chamber and the window. "It seems to me that any man with the desire to appear decent and civilized ought not to neglect it."

Marian's father was looking at her helplessly, rendered speechless by sheer disbelief at what she was so blatantly shouting to the rafters. Of course, on her face was a sweet smile as she hoped by application of psychology to influence Robin to shave or grow a full beard, one or the other, rather than the scurvy outlaw stubble he insisted on sporting. She knew his objections—he had little time for personal hygiene, being an outlaw on the run—but at heart she knew he wished to please her. Surely a broad hint in this style would not be ignored?

Marian was startled by footsteps down the staircase and out the door, which then shut so loudly the oak trembled in its frame. She raised an eyebrow at her father.

"I _tried _to tell you, Marian," said her father, exasperated.

"Who was that?" she snapped.

He shook his head wearily. "Gisborne."

"Gisborne?" she repeated dumbly. She looked wildly over her shoulder to her chamber and its window. "I didn't hear him come in."

"No, you were too busy at your window."

"What was he doing? _I _was putting on a performance for the benefit of—"

"Robin Hood, yes, I gathered that," said Sir Edward.

Marian colored slightly. "Well . . . it makes no difference. Nothing compromising was heard—I'm sure it . . ." But she trailed off. If the farce had been entirely unsubstantial, why had he run off at the last moment? She chewed her lip, quieting her misgivings as her father merely gave her a look. He had only recently accepted her as the Night Watchman; flippant behavior was not going to justify his trust in her. She sighed and went back into her chamber, glaring at the open window.

* * *

Marian stilled her mortar and pestle and listened to the court outside the front door. Someone was riding up. She waited before getting to her feet and cleaning the half-powdered juniper berries from the pestle; there was no point in being caught off-guard in the middle of her work. Despite her recalcitrance with her suitor, she did believe herself a decent leech and sometimes the only help she could provide to both outlaws and the folk of Knighton were simple remedies. So she took a pride in her work.

_Speak of the devil, _she thought, as she saw Guy of Gisborne nearing the house. He was carrying something wrapped in expensive cloth. She rolled her eyes. Another gift. She composed herself.

"Marian," he said, his step echoing on the wooden floor.

She looked up disinterestedly from the floor and caught her breath. She had to conceal her surprise as he grinned and handed her the cloth bundle from his gloves, dusty from the ride. "I hope you like it," he said.

She took the bundle but stopped short of opening it. Had he? Yes, he had. He was freshly shaven, and had done a nice job of it, too—the angled planes of his cheeks were smooth. And what did she smell? Was it valerian?

"I hope you will allow that some men, tutored in the arts of war, find bad habits hard to break." His considered words were almost unintelligible to her ears. "But if decency and civilization require it, I can be prevailed upon to . . . clean up."

She blushed. "Sir Guy, I did not know that you were listening . . ."

"No subterfuge was necessary." His eyes gleamed. "You could have said that —"

"It is only that . . ." she struggled for an explanation. "It can be a bit . . . rough, on a lady's hand." What?!

He took her hand then, as she mentally fumed, and kissed the back of it gently. "I hope it gives no offense now."

"No, er . . ." She stared down at her hands, unable to dispel the notion that he was amusing himself a bit at her expense.

"Please, open it." She looked up fully for the first time and felt dull and malignant. Kissing her hand—it was no cheap ploy. In some ways he was like a spaniel—fawning was too strong a word, but she could see no malice in him at times like these. _How wrong that was. _He did so try to please her; the intentions seemed to be genuine even if there was no way she could ever . . . She unfolded the cloth and removed a pair of good-quality riding gloves. This time, even the gift was a good one . . .

"How thoughtful," she said, trying hard to keep the sincerity out of her voice.

"Let me help you put them on."

"I can put on my own gloves," she snapped, though she quickly realized that he only wanted another look at the engagement ring she was required to wear. As she slipped the gloves on, she saw him watching her meditatively. She held up her gloved hands, demonstrating with irritation that beyond a doubt, they did fit like a . . . oh, never mind.

"Can I hope that one day soon your lips might test the roughness you so disliked?"

She blinked and felt her color deepen. He wanted to kiss her. He brought a gloved hand up to trace down her cheek, even as she jerked away. She turned from him, slowly removing the gloves. "We are not yet married."

He snorted, and she knew that even a lady like herself couldn't be expected to remain so aloof for long, especially to her fiancé. "I did not say today, I said one day soon," he said sharply from behind her. There was such bitterness and disgust in his tone, she almost felt ashamed. She waited for him to lay a hard hand on her; she still did not put physical violence beyond him.

She heard him draw off toward the door. "I hope you will wear the gloves."

By the time she had turned around, he was gone. She did not know if, after a few days time, he gave up the pretense of neatly shaving because he never expected to gain his reward. A treacherous part of her might have granted it, had he asked again.

* * *

**A/N: **Was very tempted to call this "Shaving is a Tedious Thing" . . .

**Sources **(formatting will not allow me to include website addresses, so please PM me if you would like the links to the sources)

"A Brief History of Tattoos" from _Tattoo You_

"Crusading Vows & Privileges" by Paul Crawford, from _ORB Online Dictionary: Crusades._

"Frederick the First, Holy Roman Emperor," Wikipedia.

"Healing and Hospitals" by Maggie Krzywicka from _Medieval Medicine._

_The Historical Atlas of the Crusades_ by Argus Konstam, 2004.

"The History of Tattoo Part 1" by Paul Sayce.

"History of tattooing" and "Tattoo" from Wikipedia

"Introduction" and "Wolf" by David Badke, from _The Medieval Bestiary._

_Ivanhoe_ by Sir Walter Scott.

"The later crusades, 1189-1311," _A History of the Crusades_ by R. L. Wolff and H.W. Hazard, from University of Wisconsin Press Digital Collection.

"Medicinal and Magical Herbs of Medieval Europe" by Jarkko Kuisma.

"Tyre History" byTyre Festival.

"Tyre/Sour" by Ali Khadra.

"Wolf and Werewolf" by Douglas Harper.


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